Dead Man's Drive: A Rot Rods Novel (Rot Rods #1)

by Michael Panush

  “Ah.” Roach licked blood from his lips. “Nothing else tastes like that. I like gumballs, you know. I like the chewiness and the roundness. But they don’t even come close.” Roach stepped toward Roscoe and the Captain. “There’s a unique consistency to human eyeballs. And they’re small too. I eat one or two, and then, a minute or so later, I’m hungry again.”

  Strickland stood. He walked to Torrance and gave him a gentle kick. “You’re finished in La Cruz, Mr. Torrance. Leave immediately or die. And please―don’t get up, if you don’t mind. I want to see you crawl.” Torrance rolled over and went to his hands and knees. He crawled away, still weeping. Strickland looked back at the Captain and Roscoe. “Like the demonstration?” You can join him. Either between Roach’s jaws or on the road out of La Cruz. It’s your choice.”

  The Captain patted Roscoe’s shoulder and gave it a quick tug. Roscoe moved slowly. They walked off the deck and back into the restaurant. Roscoe looked over his shoulder and stared at Kay. Her face was pale. She seemed ashamed. Her eyes went plaintively to Roscoe―a plea for forgiveness. Roscoe just looked away.

  They walked out of the restaurant and back to the parking lot. Torrance was near his motorcycle, weeping and still clutching his wound. Roach stood by the doors, watching them leave. Roscoe and the Captain got into the Rolls. They sat together and Roscoe looked over at the Captain.

  “Who’s the crusader?” he wondered.

  “Later,” the Captain said. “I’m sorry, Roscoe. I’ll give you and everyone else a full briefing―but a little later. I’d like to think now, if I can.” He closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. He seemed old again, just an ancient soldier waiting for his last battle. Roscoe could feel his unease. He started the motor and drove back to La Cruz, his own unease seething beneath his skin.

  fter the chaos of the Annual Surf and Sand Festival, La Cruz became a town on the edge. The citizens were afraid and jumpy. There was little conversation in the Main Street markets and citizens locked their doors. When night came, sirens wailed like howling coyotes in the distance and even teenage motorists left their parents’ cars in their driveways. Roscoe received even more odd looks than usual. People kept their distance from him, as though his condition was contagious. He didn’t like it, but he knew Reverend Grubb’s words were having the desired effect. People were starting to see the drivers of Donovan Motors as a threat. The town was closing ranks. Outsiders, even those who had lived in La Cruz their entire lives, were not welcome.

  The Captain seemed nervous as well. He had Betty move from her father’s house in the suburbs into the garage and kept Wooster posted outside with his revolver on his belt. When it came time to pick up Felix from La Cruz High, the Captain asked Roscoe to do it―and to take Wooster along. Roscoe agreed without complaint. It was clear the Captain was worried and Roscoe had no desire to further disturb the old man.

  So Roscoe stepped outside the square mouth of the garage, past the carcass of a Model A he was working on in his spare time, and found Wooster leaning against the wall and chewing tobacco. Roscoe stood next to him and waited for Wooster to spit. The tobacco struck the cement and splashed, leaving a rusty stain. “I’m gonna go to La Cruz High,” Roscoe said suddenly. Wooster didn’t turn to look at him. “Pick up Felix. You want to go with me?”

  “Little kraut can’t walk home?” Wooster asked.

  “Not right now.”

  Wooster sighed. “And here I was, expecting to enjoy a fine day watching the sun worm its way across a clear sky.” He squirted the last of the tobacco juice onto the sidewalk. “Reckon it’s worth the effort, though. Felix is a nice little fellow. We can take my car, too. I gotta say, it’ll be good to get out and go for a ride.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Roscoe smiled. They walked to the two-tone Packard with the bull’s horns on the bumper, hopped inside and drove off. Wooster was behind the wheel and Roscoe sat in the passenger seat. Roscoe reached for the radio, but Wooster shook his head. He twisted the dial to some Okie station out of the neighboring country village of Redborough. It was a mix of gospel warbling and cowboy ballads. Roscoe sank into his patent leather seat and glowered. Wooster didn’t care.

  They reached La Cruz High just as the classes were being let out. The High School was a refined set of structures in red brick, all around a wide courtyard featuring a hulking, menacing statue of a bronze crusader knight. The La Cruz Crusaders, the high school’s football team, were celebrated throughout the city. The kids poured out and Roscoe watched them hurry to their parents’ automobiles along the curb, or their own cars in the parking lot. Teenagers in bright red letterman jackets and cheerleaders in striped skirts clustered together. Amongst the sedans and station wagons, Wooster’s Packard was easy to spot. So was Felix. He stood on the far edge of the sidewalk, alone except for Ace Arkin, with his hands folded like he was a little professor about to address a class.

  Roscoe waved as they pulled up. Felix beamed at them and Ace stared in silent awe at Roscoe. His admiration, at least, had not faded. “Mr. Roscoe,” Felix said, as he opened the door. “It is good to see you. Is Betty busy?”

  “Doing college work, kiddo,” Roscoe said. “Hop in.” He looked over at Ace. “Need a ride?”

  “Well, ah, yeah.” Ace shrugged. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  That made Roscoe glance over at Wooster. “I don’t know,” Wooster said, quietly so that Ace couldn’t hear. “We ought to be moving quickly. Traveling light. Going a little bit out of the way could mean going out of reach of help.” He was probably right―and Strickland was doubtlessly waiting to exploit any weakness.

  Roscoe looked at Ace, at the hero worship in the boy’s eyes, and knew he couldn’t turn the request down. Anyway, it wasn’t that far to Ace’s house, which was situated amongst countless others in the suburban tendrils that branched off Main Street.

  He nodded to Ace. “It’s all right. It ain’t far.”

  Ace hopped in and took a seat next to Felix, beaming as he closed the door. “Swell!”

  Wooster started the engine and the Packard trundled away from the curb. They spun to a side street and Ace quickly explained how to get back to his house. The route involved crossing Main Street again, making a turn in a few blocks down and then entering the maze of neat, colonial-style miniature mansions, white picket fences and carefully manicured lawns.

  The kids fell silent as they drove past the quiet houses. There were few cars in the driveways, with most people still at work. Housewives puttered around behind closed doors and windows.

  Felix made a slight cough. “There was some talk of the weekend’s activities. The teacher did not allow it for long, though.”

  “Felix really stuck up for you guys,” Ace added.

  “Oh yeah?” Roscoe asked. His eyes darted to the rear view mirror.

  Two black Buicks, uniform and featuring flat, narrow noses and wide grilles tailed them. They stayed well within the speed limit. Roscoe hadn’t seen them when they were coming down Main Street, or in the crowd of cars surrounding La Cruz High.

  “That’s right, sir,” Ace said. “He declared that you were, ah, ‘fearless champions of the right’ and that your odd nature masked a determination to protect La Cruz from all threats.’“ Ace paused and then whispered. “I said that you were the only one in town who could make a chopped-top really fly over sixty miles per. The teacher gave us all extra homework.”

  “Sounds downright complimentary,” Wooster mused. He made another turn. The two Buicks, both riding together on the wide street, followed. Wooster looked over at Roscoe and nodded to the rear view mirror. “We’re being tailed. Two of them. Now, when I used to do robberies and wanted to hit an armored car, we’d always bring two vehicles―of the sort that’s pursuing us. We’d box them in and such, then bust out the guns and open fire.” Wooster didn’t lower his voice now, so Ace and Felix both heard.

  Felix glanced over his shoulder. “Mein gott.” he cried. “Mr. Roscoe, why would anyone wish to r
ob us? What objects of worth do we have in this vehicle? Mr. Stokes’s horns may fetch a fine price, but I do not think―”

  The window of the nearest Buick rolled down. A high-powered rifle poked out from behind tinted glass. Wooster saw it too. These weren’t robbers―they were a hit squad. Wooster slammed on the gas and spun the wheel as the rifle barked. The rear window shattered. Rubber burned on the street. The rifleman kept shooting, and then a Tommy gun poked out of the other car and added its chattering blaze to the volley. Wooster howled. Bright blood spurted onto the steering wheel. Roscoe was shouting at Ace and Felix to get down, but he couldn’t hear his own voice over the roar of engines and gunfire. The Packard rolled ahead.

  It struck the sidewalk and sped over the curb. Wooster twisted the wheel to the side. “Ain’t gonna survive a chase!” Blood was spilling down his button-up shirt, a few drops trickling onto his oversized belt buckle. “But we can handle a straight-up fight. My car’s big. It’ll stop bullets. Roscoe, you get the youngsters behind it when the lead starts flying.”

  “Got it!” Roscoe cried as they sailed over the sidewalk and into the lawns. The Packard’s front bumper slammed into a white picket fence. Fragments of wood went under the wheels and sprayed into the seat as the Packard went into the lawn. Perfect rows of grass were churned up and destroyed. Thick, black dirt was hurled back. A lawn flamingo bashed into the windshield as Wooster slammed on the brakes. The whole Packard swung to the side, spitting out more mud. The lawn flamingo left the windshield and bounced against the house’s wall. Its plastic eyes looked surprised. The Buicks rumbled onto the lawn as well, their wheels mashing flowers and hedges in the small garden. Car doors slammed open. Bolts clicked into place. Fingers waited on triggers.

  But the drivers were ready. Wooster kicked open the door and rolled out, pausing only to grab the Thompson submachine gun under his seat. Roscoe slipped out and grabbed Ace’s hand. He helped the boy out and pressed down on his shoulder, keeping him low. Felix hopped out next, stumbled, and fell face first in the dirt. That was probably the safest place for him. Roscoe leaned back and grabbed his sawed-off, just as the Buick’s passengers raised their weapons.

  He had time for only a quick glance before the shooting started. Roscoe eyeballed the hit squad. Somehow, he knew the tactics of the five men in trench coats and fedoras, tommy guns in their hands. These were Mafia hitmen, killers on the payroll of Don Lupo. They weren’t alone. Detective Elihu Burns, LAPD, stood in their ranks. He had his service revolver leveled at the Packard. Maybe they didn’t know two adolescent kids were in the line of the fire. Maybe they just didn’t care. They took aim and leaned on their triggers.

  Five tommy guns—and Detective Burns’ pistol—spat lead. The muzzle flashes blazed, outlining the hitmen in terrible white light. Bullets cut into the lawn, shredding grass and flowers. They struck more lawn flamingoes. The pink birds shattered. Bits of their swan necks tumbled to the ground. More bullets struck the sides of the Packard. The car rocked on its wheels as bullets gouged holes into the sides. Roscoe, Wooster, Ace, and Felix ducked, taking cover. Roscoe looked over. Ace had his head in his hands and was crying silently. The poor kid was terrified out of his mind. Felix had his hands over his ears. His eyes were wide and his freckled face pale, but he didn’t seem driven to complete terror. Grimly, Roscoe realized the German kid must be used to violence. Then again, Roscoe was also well-used to violence. The chatter of the sub-guns and the stench of spent powder was as familiar to him as breath should have been.

  Soon the machine guns’ roar faded. Spaces appeared between their shots, but Roscoe knew what they were doing―staggering their fire, hoping to tempt their opponents into breaking cover so the Thompsons could do their job. Roscoe looked over at Wooster. The big Okie was clutching his sub-gun with one hand and adjusting the clasp of his bolo tie with the other. He was grinning to himself, like he was thinking of a joke only he understood.

  Wooster glanced at Roscoe. “I’m gonna start shooting back. I’ll light up them Italian bastards. Give you some covering fire. Then you dart around with that goddamn sawed-off and pump a few shells into them at close range. Let them put that in their spaghetti.” He gripped the Thompson. “You ready, dead man?”

  “You nuts?” Roscoe asked. “They’ll pop you if you―”

  But there was no convincing Wooster to take the safer road. He stood up, walked in full view of the shooters, and opened fire. Wooster’s tommy gun roared. He blasted through the windows of one Buick. His bullets tore through glass―and through the body of a Mafia triggerman hiding behind it. A dead man went down in the grass. The others returned fire, and Wooster jolted as another burst of lead tore into him. But he didn’t stop. He dropped one of the gunmen with a rapid series of shots to the face, then blew away the next in the same second. The two remaining hitmen and Detective Burns continued to fire at Wooster. A bullet ripped open Wooster’s shoulder, and another hacked into his legs. He stayed standing, his teeth curled back; sweat and blood matted his sideburns. Wooster shot back. He gave the nearest mobster the rest of the clip. The fat slugs of the Thompson nearly tore the wise guy in half. Blood sprayed on the lawn. Wooster sank to his knees. Roscoe couldn’t tell if he was okay or not. From the bullet holes in Wooster’s coat and shirt, he expected the worst.

  Roscoe moved. There was no use in wasting Wooster’s sacrifice. He dashed around the Packard and crossed the lawn in two quick strides. He grabbed the tail fin of the nearest Buick and hoisted himself over the car. His boots landed on the grass. The remaining Mafia hitman turned to face Roscoe, bringing up his tommy gun. Roscoe brought up his sawed-off. He reached for the trigger.

  When the sawed-off fired, it was not shooting at flesh―but at an X carved into a gnarled old tree on the top of a shallow hill. The suburbs and La Cruz had vanished. Something inside Roscoe―a memory?―had taken control.

  The tree exploded, showering splinters into the yellow grass. The shotgun was not in Roscoe’s hands at all, but in the hands of an older, stoop-shouldered man with a lean face and dark hair. He put his weathered hand on Roscoe’s shoulder, which was suddenly much smaller. Roscoe saw the old fellow’s newsboy cap, black vest and white shirt with a band collar. He felt safe around this old man. There was something strong and comforting about his presence. Roscoe knew he had nothing to worry about amongst those rolling hills, with the yellow olive groves resting in the distance like fallen sunlight clothing the land.

  When he spoke, it was Italian with a strong Sicilian accent. Roscoe understood every word. “Do you know why we call this gun the Lupara, my boy?” He answered his own question. “The Lupara. The wolf shot. It is a shepherd’s weapon. In the old day, great packs of wolves would steal the sheep from the shepherd. And so, the shepherd took a shotgun and―pop―he cuts down the barrel, to make it easy to hold and to fire.” He held the sawed-off in front of Roscoe’s eager eyes. “Then, when the wolf comes, you just wait and raise the gun and―pop― you fire, and that is the end of the wolf. So it is called the wolf shot.”

  The old man steered Roscoe closer to the tree. He pointed to the wound in the wood with one finger. “As it is with the wolf, so it is with the man. You must wait until you are close enough. You can hide the lupara easily, beneath any coat. Then, when the moment is right, you pull it out, point it right at your enemy and―pop―they are finished.” The hand returned to Roscoe’s shoulder, strong and comforting. “There are many wolves in our land, my boy. The one who lives in the villa, who calls himself don and demands everyone follow his commands―he is a wolf. And the one in Rome, who has airplanes and submarines and calls himself Il Duce―he is a wolf too. But no matter how big a wolf is, they are still little more than dogs. And with the lupara, my son, you just need to get close and then you can put the dog down.”

  The vision ended as the mobster’s tommy gun fired. A shot tore a chunk of flesh from Roscoe’s gut. Roscoe just stood there, the pain banishing the rolling hills, the gnarled tree, and the Sicilian man. He stared d
own at the gunman. He saw the terror and disbelief in the gangster’s face, and then the sawed-off thundered. The hitman toppled back onto the sidewalk, his skull a ruin. Roscoe had fired at close range, just like he had been taught. The wolf died before him.

  Only one remaining member of the hit squad remained―Detective Elihu Burns, who hid behind the other gangsters and now came to his feet. Roscoe leveled his sawed-off at Detective Burns, but the dirty cop had aimed revolver. Both men went still. It was a Mexican standoff. Detective Burns looked at Roscoe, his face flushed under the brim of his fedora. He kept the revolver steady and slowly came to his feet. Sirens wailed in the distance.

  Detective Burns cocked his head. “Huh. Carmine. Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Carmine?” Roscoe asked. The name stirred something in the back of his brain. Detective Burns’ face did as well. The memory―for that what’s it had to be―had been jarred loose. Roscoe felt a little panic creeping into him. He didn’t like these discoveries. He didn’t like how everyone seemed to know more about him than he did.

  “Yeah. I thought it was you, when I saw you in the Beach Club. Now I’m certain.” Detective Burns took a step closer. “What the hell are you doing here, Carmine? Chauffeuring old men around? Taking kids back and forth from school? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve lost your way.”

  “What makes you think I haven’t?”

  “Come on, Carmine.” Burns grinned. “The guy I knew would never do that.”

  The sirens were drawing closer now, making the turn from Main Street and into the suburbs. Roscoe decided to keep Burns talking. Once the cops arrived, they’d sort everything out. Detective Burns would get arrested, and Wooster, Felix and Ace would be safe.